


Provocation

by Joodiff



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, Doggy Style, Erotica, F/M, Kitchen Sex, Morning Sex, Table Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3706891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grace didn't intend to stay the night, but she did.</p>
<p>
  <i>Adult content. Don't like, don't read.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Provocation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ScriptionAddict](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScriptionAddict/gifts), [GotTea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/gifts).



> Mainly for Scription Addict, a dear friend who's waited so very patiently, and for Got Tea, whose talent and enthusiasm provided the shot in the arm I needed. Everyone else, just enjoy the ride. So to speak. ;)

**DISCLAIMER:** _I own nothing._

**Provocation**

by Joodiff

As she enters the sleek modern kitchen at the rear of the house, there’s a moment when Grace dearly wishes she had a camera. Boyd, only half-dressed, is ironing the grey shirt he presumably intends to wear to work. It’s not so much the banal domesticity of _what_ he’s doing that amuses her, but _how_ he is doing it. Typically far too impatient to wrestle with the ironing board she knows is lurking somewhere in the depths of the cupboard under the stairs, he has simply dumped what she fervently hopes is a clean tea-towel onto the pristine granite counter, and is ironing the – no doubt expensive and bespoke – shirt on top of it. He’s also reading through the complicated notes on the Collins case that they made together the previous evening, and attempting to drink a cup of coffee. Multi-tasking. Pragmatic, but not necessarily sensible given the nature of the combined tasks, she decides. She has no intention of criticising, however, not when there’s even the slightest chance that he’ll somehow cajole her into taking over ironing duties.

“Tea?” she asks instead, pausing a moment to look out of the window. The sky is blue and cloudless, and the increasing warmth of the morning suggests the possibility of real heat later. Summertime in London – always a mixed blessing as far as she’s concerned.

“Kettle’s boiled,” Boyd informs her with a cursory glance. A glance that becomes a long and thoughtful look. “Why are you wearing one of my shirts?”

“I was never a Boy Scout.”

He regards her with a blank expression. “What?”

“I didn’t come prepared,” Grace explains, patting him on the arm as she walks past. His skin is warm and smooth. “I didn’t expect to be staying over last night. Besides, it’s traditional. Mandatory, even.”

“You’re making even less bloody sense than usual,” he grumbles, attention switching back to ironing. “What time are you due in court?”

“Ten – but Sykes thinks they probably won’t call me until this afternoon.” The water in the kettle is certainly hot, she discovers, but hardly just-boiled. Flicking the switch on the appliance, she amuses herself by taking the time to admire the broad width of bare male back and shoulders on display. Every sweep of iron across fabric causes a small but discernible flex of muscle beneath his skin. Mildly hypnotised, Grace studies the interesting phenomenon, a few stray exciting but definitely inappropriate – given the time – thoughts idly going through her mind.

As if he senses the intense scrutiny, Boyd looks over his shoulder at her. “What?”

Grace shrugs. “Nothing. Just enjoying the view.”

Holding up the iron, he offers, “You can take over if you like.”

“I really wouldn’t trust myself with Jermyn Street’s finest.” She gives him a sunny smile. “Do carry on.”

The noise that he makes in reply is disparaging. Grace watches as he returns to his task, thumping the iron down loudly. He’s meticulous, of course. Collar, cuffs, sleeves. Front, back. Must be a throwback to his days as a police cadet at Hendon, she thinks. Drifting towards him, she says, “You’re really quite good at that, aren’t you? Feel free to do my ironing for me anytime you fancy.”

“That day will never dawn,” Boyd assures her, unplugging the iron and setting it aside before transferring the now immaculately pressed shirt to a coat-hanger. He stretches up to hook it on the doorframe, the easy movement of muscle under skin once again capturing her attention. The years have taken their inevitable toll, of course, but thanks to certain… personal experience… Grace absolutely believes he was every bit as formidably athletic in his youth as some of the prevailing stories amongst his peers about improbable chases and arrests tend to suggest. Lost in a pleasant daydream, she almost jumps when he turns round, gives her an odd look and says, “Well? Are you going to make yourself a cup of tea, or just stand there staring at me?”

“Let’s go back to bed.” The words come from nowhere, surprising her.

Boyd’s eyebrows climb skywards in immediate response. “Christ, Grace – you really know how to pick your moments, don’t you?”

The idea, spontaneous and unexpected, begins to take root, becoming more appealing by the second. The sensual caress of soft sheets, of soft skin… She smiles, half rueful, half coquettish. “Well, who’s going to dare challenge you if you’re just the tiniest bit late for work…?”

He shakes his head, increasing irritation quite obvious. “Where was all this enthusiasm last night?”

“I was dog-tired last night.”

“And now you’re full of the joys of spring?”

The sour note in his voice only makes her smirk. “Something like that.”

“Terrific. Great timing, Grace. Bloody great.”

She watches as he moves around the kitchen, far more amused than affronted by his sulky annoyance. Peter Boyd is a man with a healthy libido, and one who likes to have his own way, and he most definitely had his own expectations the previous night when she decided she was far too tired to drive home at such a late hour. None of them, presumably, included her getting into bed, curling up against him and going more-or-less straight to sleep. Stepping up behind him, Grace presses herself against his back, resting her hands on his waist. He smells strongly of cologne and fresh soap. A little too strongly. She likes the evening scent of him better, a far from unpleasant hint of sweat and musk mingling with citrus and sandalwood to create an alluring fragrance that never fails to draw her in.

Placing a light kiss in the prominent groove between his shoulder-blades, she offers a winsome and entirely contrived, “Don’t be cross with me, Peter.”

“Oh, please,” is the disgusted response. “Stop right there. I’m not falling for that old trick.”

With a quiet chuckle Grace presses herself even closer against him. “Fair enough. It was worth a try.”

“Get off me, woman,” he orders, giving a half-hearted shrug which does very little to dislodge her. “I’m running late as it is.”

“Your loss,” she says, more interested in running an exploratory hand over his flank than in arguing with him. Her palm quickly encounters the familiar ridges of scar tissue, but she’s no longer cast back in time to the frantic hours after Reece Dickson’s death, to the dark hours when none of them were sure that their injured commander would survive to see the next morning. Instead of momentarily freezing, her hand glides onwards, round to the gentle curve of his stomach. “Shame, though. I’m feeling rather – “

“God’s sake… What are you trying to do to me?” Boyd interrupts, and she suspects that the edge in his voice isn’t feigned.

“Well, if you don’t know by now…” It requires stretching, but then the cool metal of his belt buckle is passing under her hand. She can feel expensive fabric, the distinct line of a zip, and beneath, the unequivocal physical proof of the effect she’s having on him. Not fully hard, not yet, but interested. Definitely interested. Her triumphant grin is interrupted by the abrupt shock of his hand clamping down on her wrist, and the speed with which he pivots to face her. Grace looks up at him, not at all intimidated by the substantial height difference between them. Noting his expression of strained tolerance she pouts. It seems to have no effect whatsoever.

“Stop it,” he scolds, his voice suddenly much deeper, much huskier.

She’s won. In that moment she realises that she’s won. Perhaps he will growl and grumble a little more, just for form’s sake, but that doesn’t matter. The moment stretches, charged with anticipation and acknowledgement. Her focus shifts down from his eyes to his lips. Straight, sensitively-drawn, and far too tempting. His firm grip on her wrist releases, and his arms go round her as they both lean into an effortless kiss that both teases and promises. Eyes closed, Grace lets go of her thoughts, concentrates only on sensation, on the places where they touch and the places where they don’t. The rough bristle of his close-trimmed beard, the surprising tenderness and mobility of his lips; the enticing warmth of his skin. Familiar now, all of it, but still maddeningly intoxicating.

Boyd moves to her neck, just the very tip of his tongue finding the exact spot that never fails to make her shiver. Aware that her breathing has become quick and shallow, Grace rests her forehead against his shoulder for a moment as she makes a conscious effort to regain some semblance of calm and control. She knows exactly how capricious he is, how easily he could suddenly change his mind, cast aside her victory and leave her in a seething state of disgruntled arousal with nothing more than a vague promise of later. A not-very-subtle shift of weight allows her to press tight against him again, her sole intention to gauge how ready he is, how likely he is to ignore his professional responsibilities and continue down the alluring erotic pathway she’s traced out for them. Very ready, she discovers; very ready, very hard. Threading her fingers through his hair, endlessly fascinated by its luxuriant texture, she murmurs in his ear, “Let’s go back upstairs.”

Boyd traces his lips back up her neck in reply. “No.”

Not the reaction she expected. Damn the infuriating, contrary man and his unrelenting unpredictability. Pulling back as much as she is able to, and making no attempt to hide her displeasure, Grace scowls up at him. “No…? Why not?”

The deep brown eyes that seem impossibly dark in some lights, and show all their muted colours in others, have taken on a dangerous look she knows very well. Intense, foxy and just a little meditative. Grace is no-one’s fool, and at times like this she fancies she can read him like the proverbial book. Ignoring the increasing edgy, achy need spreading relentlessly through her, she shakes her head, slow and determined. “No. No chance. You can forget that idea right now, Mister.”

The mock-innocent grin that breaks through is engaging and incalculably wicked. It changes the character of his face completely, makes him look far younger, far less cynical and world-weary. “Oh? And what idea would that be, Grace?”

“The highly age-inappropriate idea I can see written all over your face,” she tells him, deadpan. But… he’s so damned handsome, and she’s so damned weak… Catching herself, she shakes her head in stern disapproval. “Honestly, you’re completely incorrigible.”

This time the grin comes with teeth. “Says she of the wandering hands.”

Not something Grace can really deny. She opens her mouth to speak, but finds herself caught in a kiss that’s much deeper, rougher, and far more urgent than the first one. She barely notices the questing hand that moves to her breast as their tongues tangle, retreat, and tangle again, but she’s hyper-aware of Boyd’s sudden urgency, of the acute male hardness pressing against her stomach. His thumb finds her nipple and caresses it, the motion gentle but also firm and precise, and the exquisite sensation that jolts along her nerve-endings in reaction causes a sharp intake of breath and an immediate re-focussing of her attention. Swiping her tongue across his, Grace breaks out of the kiss and immediately goes for his throat, for the soft hollow beneath his Adam’s apple, one of her favourite spots. She uses her lips to draw an invisible path to the raised ridge of his collarbone, and his response is to grind his hips against her, the movement so blatant and so carnal that it causes an instant rush of heat through her body that does nothing to ease the deep throb of arousal centred between her thighs.

Boyd edges back, forcing a negligible distance between them that makes her frown, but any thought of complaint dies away when he reaches out to tweak the high-quality cotton of her purloined shirt. “Pity. If you’d chosen the blue one, I wouldn’t have thought twice about ripping it off you.”

She believes him. In the sleepy midnight hours, in the intimate comfort of his bed or hers, he’s invariably a tender, conscientious lover, not afraid to show the gentler side of his nature, but in the rash, spontaneous moments of passion like this, the ones that sometimes spark recklessly between them, he’s far more precipitous, much more tempestuous. And, heaven help her, Grace likes it. Staring him straight in the eye, she challenges, “Words are cheap, Boyd.”

His lips quirk, but he doesn’t say a word. Nor does he relinquish his hold on the shirt. She watches him, knowing how his mind works. He’s debating whether or not she’s bluffing. Whether or not he is, too. Whether it would be more predictable to let go, or to grab with both hands and pull hard, popping the buttons. Some of the junior officers working in their building probably have suits that cost less than just one of Boyd’s shirts, but that won’t stop him if he decides –

He releases the fabric. Grace isn’t sure if she’s disappointed. Before she can decide, he orders, “Take it off.”

Eyebrows raised, she subjects him to a steady, pointed gaze. As head of their unit, at work he may very well peremptorily bark orders at her – at everyone – something that never fails to rile her, but it’s not a habit that has ever transferred into their personal relationship, whatever stage it’s been at. He can be irritable, difficult, and temperamental, but he’s no male chauvinist. They so often find themselves bickering for supremacy simply because that’s who they are, and – perversely – because they both enjoy it. Most of the time. Into the anticipatory silence stretching between them, she demands, “Or…?”

Boyd moves so fast that Grace has no time to react, but he doesn’t grab the shirt as she expects. Instead he catches her firmly by the waist and then twists at the hip, vividly demonstrating just how strong he really is by lifting her from the floor and settling her firmly on the kitchen counter all in one graceful movement. The granite is smooth, and icy cold against the back of her thighs, and she can’t quite suppress a slight yelp of surprise. Boyd’s answering grin is ferocious. Not having to look upwards to glare at him is a novelty. He nudges her legs apart, eases between them, effectively trapping her. Tall as he is, his belt buckle is only just clear of the top of the counter, precluding any immediate thoughts of further mischief.

“You know what they say,” he tells her, his voice silky-smooth, “there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

“Personally,” she drawls, “I’ve never understood why one would want to. I suppose if – “

“Grace.”

The reproachful note in his voice amuses her. “Peter.”

They stare at each other for a few long, calculated moments. A silent, subtle battle of wills over something utterly inconsequential. Without a word, Boyd leans towards her and starts to unfasten buttons. As each in turn surrenders to him, he kisses the newly-revealed area of skin beneath. There’s nothing hurried about it; he takes his time, every movement deft, every kiss soft and lingering. It’s unexpected, and it’s stunningly, powerfully erotic. Hands gripping his bare shoulders, Grace closes her eyes, the loss of one sense immediately heightening all the others. Dreams and fantasies, and stray flashes of memory all play their part, slipping in and out of her mind between every physical sensation until she’s so tense with need and desire that even the slightest brush of his fingertips makes her tremble.

His mouth latches onto her breast, and she can’t stop herself moaning as he uses teeth and tongue to stir all the deep nerves, each individual shock of pleasure echoed much lower in her body. She wants to shout and swear, wants to drive her nails into the solid muscle of his shoulders. Wants to fling him to the floor – a laughable idea in the real world where he outweighs her by a good seventy pounds – and ride him hard and fast until the whole world explodes around her. She wants to –

Boyd’s phone, lying forgotten with his wallet and keys next to the fridge, starts to ring, its unwelcome summons loud and discordant. The noise shatters the hungry moment, pulling Grace violently back to the place where she’s certainly old enough to know better, and he’s firmly shackled by responsibilities sworn on oath years before she met him. The number and variety of the expletives falling from his lips is extraordinary, but for once she doesn’t begrudge him the tirade.

“If that’s Spence…” she grumbles, letting the sentence go unfinished.

Boyd all-but throws himself across the room to the opposite counter, his wild fury as the phone stops ringing the very moment he lays a hand on it making her think for a moment that he’s going to hurl the offending device straight through the kitchen window and out into the garden beyond. He doesn’t, but after a cursory glance at the display, he slams it back down with such force that she wonders if it will ever ring again. He turns to face her, expression thunderous. “Fucking-Beecham-from-the-fucking-CPS.”

“At eight o’clock in the bloody morning?”

“Fucking bastard fucking _fuckwit_.”

Grace can’t help it. She starts to laugh. The way Boyd is glowering, hands on hips, dark brows drawn down in an angry scowl, only makes the whole ridiculous, woeful situation even funnier. Gulping for air, she manages a wavering, “Oh, dear… Talk about _coitus interruptus_ …”

“Jesus _Christ_ …”

Sliding as decorously from the counter as she can manage, she starts to primly refasten buttons as her inappropriate mirth subsides. The fierce, reckless need has retreated, leaving only a dull ache of frustration that is easily ignored. “Probably just as well,” she says, trying to be philosophical. Settling on one of the elegant kitchen chairs, she leans an elbow on the neat square table tucked into the corner of the room and raises her eyebrows at the stationary Boyd. “Oh, come on, Boyd. It’s not the end of the world. There’s always tonight…”

“’Tonight’?” he echoes, stepping towards her. “I’m harder than a fifteen year-old who’s just found his big brother’s hidden stash of girlie magazines – “

She smirks. “Are you speaking from personal experience?”

“ – and you’re talking about _tonight_?”

Ignoring his sudden proximity, she shrugs. “Well, if you really hurry, you’ve probably got time for a cold shower before anyone actually notices you’re AWOL.”

His snort is derisive, but there’s a bad-tempered note of capitulation in his voice as he grumbles, “Not helping, Grace. Really not helping.”

“Sorry.” She smiles up at him, a sudden surge of affection making her reach out to take his hand, her thumb tracing tenderly over his knuckles as she wonders exactly when it was that they became so good at seamlessly adapting to each other’s moods. She’s startled when he raises her hand and kisses it gently. It’s an acknowledgement of something, and perhaps a reassurance, too. It’s the look in his eyes, though, which makes something in her chest tighten. The blazing fire’s gone, replaced by a wistful sort of acquiescence that Grace thinks she understands. For Boyd, she knows, sex is as much about communication as it is about lust. Communication and connection, all the things he simply doesn’t know how to verbalise translated into the arcane, ancient language of flesh. She smiles again, every bit as tender and affectionate as before. “Close your eyes.”

He tilts his head a fraction, expression both thoughtful and quizzical. “Why? What are you going to do to me?”

Left-handed, she reaches for his belt buckle. “Guess.”

His breath hisses out audibly. “Grace – “

“Close your eyes,” she repeats, a soft but uncompromising command. The soft jingle of his buckle yielding to her seems to act as a cue, because after a moment’s further hesitation he does as he’s told, releasing her other hand. She reaches for him then, exploring the exciting male contours concealed beneath the fabric. Not quite as steely-hard as he was a few minutes ago, perhaps, but Grace can feel that changing as she slowly traces the length of him. She turns her attention to his button and zip, and a moment later his elegantly-tailored trousers are pooled around his ankles, revealing sturdy thighs and plain black trunks to her inquisitive gaze. She glances up just in time to see him rebelliously squinting down. “Closed,” she orders, reinforcing the instruction with a smart tap to his hip. It works, though she hears an answering sound that’s very definitely a growl of complaint. Submissive is not Boyd’s forte, not at all, but the concept does seem to fascinate him, just a little. Not a difficult thing for a psychologist like Grace to understand, the tempting, only half-recognised desire of a powerful, successful man to temporarily relinquish control to someone else.

“Very nice,” she comments, stroking across the tautly-stretched fabric of his trunks. She can feel the potent heat that’s radiating through them. Raw masculinity, tightly controlled – but not for long. She thinks she hears him swallow, but doesn’t bother to look up. Her own level of arousal is rising again, the renewed pleasant tingling between her thighs a delightful counterpoint to the deeper ache that’s becoming needier by the second. Strange just how quickly all the dying embers of passion became searing-hot flames the moment she first looked at him and knew, just _knew_. Knew that on some level, in some place far beyond the bickering and mutual infuriation, there was a natural resonance between them. Something both more and less than affinity, sexual chemistry or the attraction of opposites. Strange, too, how reluctant they’d both been at first to step across the invisible line of professional propriety in search of fulfilment, given how strong the perpetual temptation had been.

Boyd shifts his weight from one foot to the other, a not-very-subtle hint that springs her from her brief reverie. A change of pace is what’s needed, Grace decides. Grabbing the elastic waistband of his trunks, she pulls them straight down in a single fierce tug that causes a not-quite stifled yelp from above her as rigid flesh refuses to yield, bends, and then snaps free. Pain or surprise, she’s not quite sure, but it’s not important – before Boyd can utter a word of complaint she seizes him in hand and mouth, sweeping her tongue firmly across highly sensitive skin. His hands drop heavily onto her shoulders, fingers tightening reflexively, but lost as she is in a strong surge of carnal adrenaline that only heightens her arousal, Grace is barely aware of his forceful grip.

“Fuck,” his rough voice announces above her, the hoarse edge to the succinct exclamation more than enough proof that he’s well-aware of exactly who’s in control. It’s a powerful aphrodisiac, driving her to increase the speed and strength of her attack. She works him hard and without mercy, knowing she can break him like this. Has done on more than one occasion, stripping him down to nothing but incoherent noise and the desperate animal need for release. Not this time. With a final squeeze and a deliberate swirl of her tongue, Grace pulls away from him, and as she looks up she wonders if Boyd can see the same hungry, needy look in her eyes that she can see in his. Almost certainly, she decides, as he takes her by the hands and encourages her back to her feet, his mouth immediately on hers, the ferocity of his kiss reminding her of the very first time the barriers between them fell so spectacularly, and of the long and memorable night that followed.

Part of her thinks it shouldn’t be this way between them, that there shouldn’t be so much wild passion and desire at their time of life – he is, after all, only a few years her junior. Part of her still has misgivings about him, about them, about what the future may hold, but –

Her thoughts, her reservations, everything still rational in her mind implodes as his hand slips between her thighs and strong, skilful fingers find their target. She shudders, bites his lower lip. If Boyd notices, he doesn’t care. The kiss goes on, the deft fingers do their wonderful, wicked work, and Grace doesn’t notice every last button on her borrowed shirt capitulating once again until the hand responsible is on her breast, kneading gently. The kiss finally reaches its natural conclusion, leaving her licking lips that feel delightfully full and bruised. She reaches for him again, curling her fingers around the jutting hardness and squeezing just to feel the sharp answering twitch. They fall into the same heated rhythm quite naturally, staring straight into each other’s eyes as they silently share the delicious, hedonistic intimacy of touching and being touched.

“Stop,” Boyd instructs, the hand on her breast dropping to encircle her wrist, preventing further movement.

“Problem?” she inquires, a more than slight breathlessness preventing her from sounding quite as innocent as she intends.

“That depends…” The quick grin he gives her is somehow both roguish and self-deprecatory, and it makes her smile. To her, all the passion in the world means nothing without honesty, trust and affection, and it’s here, in the tiny moments, in the otherwise insignificant little gaps in their lives, that she finds all three in him and with him. She releases him, kisses his chest, the tip of her tongue flicking against his skin. There’s a tension in him that’s familiar and exciting, but she deliberately steps away from him to slip the unbuttoned shirt from her shoulders. Visibly taut, Boyd watches every movement, head lowered a fraction in intense concentration. She doesn’t doubt he’ll pounce at the slightest provocation. And provoking him is something Grace enjoys – and excels at.

She turns her back on him, leans forward and puts her hands flat on the table, fingers splayed, then looks back over her shoulder, silently daring him. Impatiently kicking free of the trousers and trunks still tangled round his ankles, Boyd is almost immediately behind her, the hot hardness of his shaft pressing against her buttocks a sharp erotic thrill. Letting him part her thighs with his knee is no act of subservience, of surrender. Grace is imperious about it, magnanimous and triumphant as he fumbles between them to position himself. She’s not passive, she’s expectant; silent but relentless in pursuit of getting exactly what she wants from him. It’s no surprise that he pushes into her with steady force – not rough, but not gentle, either. They are past that, both of them. He grunts with the effort of the first thrust, but it only takes a few seconds for her body to adjust to the familiar size and shape of him, for the sliding fusion of their bodies to become a hot, slick pleasure.

“Hard,” she orders, heart already pounding fast. Her fingers flex, nails attempting to bite into the sleek surface of the table. She leaves damp smudged fingerprints that his long-suffering elderly cleaner will later polish away, oblivious to the tale they tell.

Boyd is gripping her hips with tenacious strength as he drives into her, somehow managing to adjust his stance mid-thrust to cause a deliberate change of angle that makes Grace whimper against her will. Now he’s hitting all the right spots with every fast, deep stroke, and she can feel the tingling start of the escalating tension that will almost certainly lead her all the way to the final peak – if he doesn’t break the quick, steady rhythm that’s now working so very well. A touch of apprehension starts to set in as all her wants and fears begin to collide – the need for release, the elusive promise of it so close, and yet so easily snatched away. Almost there. Almost, _almost_ …

He’s panting heavily, as if he’s just chased down a young and very fit suspect, and from nowhere Grace somehow knows – grim and certain – that her chance is lost. She’s right. Boyd suddenly stops moving, fully-seated inside her, and she instantly wants to howl in rage and disappointment. Her momentary fury is mitigated a little by his strangled mutter of, “Shit… Cramp… Cramp in my thigh… _Christ_ …”

“For God’s sake,” she complains, sounding every bit as bitter as she feels. “So much for a quickie before work.”

He sounds faint and unusually chastened as he says, “Sorry… Fuck, Grace, it really bloody hurts.”

Clarity – very unwelcome – seizes hold of Grace without mercy, gives her a rough shake, and then deposits her in a very real, very three-dimensional place where she feels old, tired, and more than a little ridiculous. She straightens up, breaking the deep, intimate connection of their bodies. The clock on the wall above the long-ago boiled kettle isn’t gentle in its stark warning. She looks away with a glower. Next to her, Boyd is bent over, massaging his thigh hard with both hands, features set in a grimace of pain.

It’s just not working for them. Not today, not this morning. With little other option, Grace accepts the disappointment with grudging equanimity. Taking a calming breath, and aiming for a note of sympathetic rationality, she suggests, “Go and have a hot shower – that should help loosen the muscles a bit.”

Boyd lifts his head. “Just… give me a moment.”

“Can’t,” she informs him, shaking her head as she starts into motion. “I’ve got to go home before I can even think about heading off to court, remember?”

He snags her wrist, preventing her departure. She sees him wince as he straightens and tests his weight on the refractory leg, but it holds, and he seems to decide to simply ignore the discomfort. “I’ll get you there on time. Trust me.”

“Blues and twos?” she guesses, not sure if he’s serious.

It seems he is. “Not ideal, but if necessary…”

“Naughty.” She eyes him speculatively, interest piqued again. “And are you also going to find it necessary to handcuff me, Officer?”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Boyd advises, a huskiness in his voice that sends a shiver down her spine and gives her a moment’s pause for thought. He wouldn’t… would he?

Evidently not, at least not today, because he lifts her again, this time depositing her on the table. Not as cold as the granite counter, but Grace barely notices. Her attention is entirely on Boyd as thwarted desire – his and hers – starts to rise again. She hooks her legs around his hips without a qualm as he leans in, suddenly impatient as rational thought is once again eclipsed by the primal need to be taken, to be filled, to be made complete. It’s still a shock when instead of the slow, deliberate possession that she expects, Boyd drives himself back into her hard. It’s good, though, and she moans and shuts her eyes as he starts to thrust, concentrating fiercely on the promising friction caused by his deliberate roughness.

“Open your eyes.” It’s an authoritative growl of command, one that would normally make Grace bristle, and would no doubt lead them into an argument that could last for hours – if not days. This time, she obeys without thought.

The dark eyes staring at her are feral, blazing with an uncanny fire that is frightening, compelling and hypnotic. It’s the passion in them that Grace really sees, the unconcealed evidence of a fierce and limitless combination of love and lust. It’s like staring straight into the wild, stormy heart of the man and seeing her image firmly imprinted there. Boyd releases his firm hold on her hips, entwines his fingers with hers, wordlessly encouraging her to tighten her grip, as if by doing so they can fully merge, become a single creature. No him and her, just _them_.

It works magic on Grace in an entirely different way, the intensity of the emotional contact going much further, much deeper than the physical union of their flesh. This time it’s different. This time there’s no trembling ascent towards a tempting summit that suddenly vanishes. This time she’s just suddenly there, right at the peak, the tumbling waves of pleasure spreading through her with incredible force. She’s coming, she’s crying out, she’s grasping Boyd’s hands so tightly that there will be bruises there later, but she doesn’t know or care as the wonderful release goes on and on, finally leaving her exhausted and twitching with residual spasms as she struggles to catch her breath. Knowing how sensitive she is in those first moments of recovery, Boyd is no longer moving, and with a tiny conscious part of her mind she loves him dearly for it. He waits with uncharacteristic patience until she’s able to give him a fleeting smile of reassurance, and then he starts to thrust again, slow at first, easing her back into the deep rhythm, but quickly gaining in speed and force.

She watches his jaw clench, his eyes close. Watches it beginning for him, fascinated and aroused by the vicarious experience. Boyd grunts, the noise guttural and primitive, and the strong, sharp jerks of his hips tell her that he’s reached his own peak, that in seconds he will collapse against her, his body hot, heavy, and unmoving. She’s right – he does. He breaks free with one hand to support at least some of his weight as his head crashes down onto her shoulder. Drifting on a relaxed plateau of warm satisfaction, Grace doesn’t attempt to move beneath him. As her breathing and heartrate return to something like normal, she uses her free hand to gently stroke his hair, her attention caught by the fascinating way the sunlight pouring through the kitchen window makes the pure silver strands shine so brilliantly amongst the darker greys. Close to his ear, she finally murmurs, “Okay…?”

Boyd barely stirs. The reply is a muffled, inarticulate noise that she takes as an affirmative. Relaxed she might very well be, but he is heavy and the table is unforgiving against her back and shoulders. Feet dangling in mid-air, she can’t even lever herself into a slightly more comfortable position to reduce the unrelenting pressure. He still seems to be largely insensible, so she takes it upon herself to tap him on the shoulder. “Heavy.”

He takes the hint, lifts his head, and moves sluggishly to take more of his weight on his arms. Never one to miss an ideal opportunity, Grace idly traces the suddenly distinct contours of his biceps as she gazes up at him. The ferocious blaze of passion has gone from his eyes, and the bright sunlight has stolen much of their impenetrable darkness. They look softer, gentler. Maybe it’s just her imagination. The way he tilts his head to one side is not imaginary. It’s enchanting, but it’s his voice, still rough-edged and way down in the lower registers, that really affects her. “Jesus, Grace… What you do to me…”

It’s not idle flattery, she knows that. He’s not a loquacious man, certainly not in his private life, and what he says he means. The things he says in intimate moments are heartfelt, honest and often far-too blunt, but they’re worth a damn sight more to Grace than any amount of glib romantic clichés. Reaching up to run gentle fingers down his cheek, she says, “I drive you crazy; I know.”

A spark of sly amusement lights in his eyes as he recognises her deliberate misinterpretation. “All the time. Every bloody minute of every bloody day.”

She smirks at him. “And you love it.”

“I wouldn’t go quite that far,” he says, dropping a light kiss on her forehead before sliding free of her and slowly levering himself upright. It doesn’t escape her notice that he’s still hard. Not as aggressively, desperately hard as he was, maybe, but… Grace gives herself a firm mental shake. They aren’t sex-starved teenagers, either of them, and there isn’t time anyway.

Easing up into a seated position, she watches the nonchalant way he moves across the room, stretching as he goes. Admiring the long lines of his back and legs, she says, “Depends, doesn’t it? On the how, where and why.”

“See?” he complains, just as she knew he would. “You’re not supposed to be trying to prove how damn clever you are, Grace; you’re supposed to be enjoying some kind of blissful post-coital stupor.”

“A silent and suitably appreciative stupor, presumably?”

Boyd turns and regards her with a baleful stare. “You’re going to be _very_ late getting to court at this rate.”

“I doubt it,” she tells him, cheerful and confident. Her feet finally find the tiled floor – still cool despite the increasing warmth of the morning. “You have far too much respect for the judicial system.”

“One day…” he warns, the implied threat unspecified. “One bloody day, Grace…”

“You’ll either murder me or marry me?” she offers, bending over to retrieve her borrowed shirt. She doesn’t need to look round to know he is savouring the unexpected view afforded to him.

His voice is still a touch gruff. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive, believe me.”

“Quick shower,” Grace says, aiming an accurate swipe at his bare buttocks, “and then straight to my place.”

“Get a move on, then. I’ll call Spence and – “

“Quick shower _together_.” At his raised eyebrow, she adds, “It’ll be faster.”

The look he gives her is pointed. Beautifully sceptical. “You think so, do you?”

Heading for the door, she says over her shoulder, “I’ll even wash your back for you, if you’re a very good boy.”

“Yeah,” Boyd says, following her, “because that will _really_ help save time… Great plan, Grace.”

_\- the end -_


End file.
